Of Song and Water (34 page)

In the afternoon, he sweeps the garage, ties up newspapers and magazines, and tosses out a dull tin snips and a corroded screwdriver. He decides to bequeath his workbench to the next tenant. He organizes his toolbox and loads a heavy length of towing chain into the rear of the pickup. He'd been lugging the chain from one side of the garage to the other for years now, after using it to pull out a stump for Maureen and then thinking he'd someday haul it to Humbug and just leave it in the yard.

He eats a bowl of cornflakes for dinner.

He showers. He trims and files his nails before picking up his guitar and playing into the evening and well beyond sunset, the amplifier low and the door closed so as not to disturb the neighbors.

He unplugs at midnight and lays his guitar in its case. He goes into the kitchen and washes his hands and sets a glass on the counter and pours two fingers of vodka. He drinks. He grabs his keys, walks out to his truck, and opens the garage door.

 

WHEN he rolls in at Humbug – driving slow with the headlights off, gravel crunching beneath his tires – he listens for the sound of voices. He notices three cars in the lot. Sleepovers, he thinks. They should be dead to the world at this hour.

Now, at the height of summer, except for a few wrecks and his father's boat, the yard looks deserted, a vacant lot flooded with moonlight. Everything he sees is black, gray, or white. He peers at the shadows and waits for the slightest movement, a brief glimmer or a shifting outline. No ghosts tonight, he thinks.

He turns around and backs the pickup toward the middle of the boat, stopping a short distance from the starboard side. He shuts off the engine and grabs the pliers and box wrench that he'd placed on the passenger seat after packing his tools.

He kneels at the forward leg of the cradle and for a moment looks up. Curving away from him is an endless expanse of white. He clamps the pliers on the head of the bolt and slips the wrench over the nut. His hands are warm and without pain. He leans forward, letting the weight of his shoulders do the work, and the nut gives way. After two more rotations, he spins it off, removes the lock washer, and slowly slides out the bolt. The leg, a slim shaft bearing the load of his father's boat, stays in its socket. He lets out a breath – almost laughing – and sweat drips off his forehead. At the aft leg, repeating the process, he listens hard for any unexpected creak or groan.

He opens the tailgate and drags out the heavy chain and lets it drop to the ground. He finds the red link in the middle of the chain and hooks it to the towing bar. He yanks one end toward the bow, loops the chain around the forward leg, and runs it back. He pulls the other end toward the stern and loops the aft leg.

Suddenly, a thin squeal strikes his ear. He freezes. He stares at the white hull, the moonlight icing it down, but nothing comes to him except the river and his breathing. He hooks both ends of the chain to the truck's chassis.

He checks the marina. The boats in their wells are motionless; no one seems to be stirring. He starts the engine and creeps forward until there's plenty of clearance and no more slack in the chain. Then he puts the truck in low gear. He leans out the window and turns, craning his neck for the best view.

He presses the gas pedal. He feels a mild strain and the cradle's legs pop out like toothpicks.

The boat shudders. It tips and moans. It wavers for a split second as if it
were struggling to right itself, and then it falls on its side like a beached whale, the keel snapping and the hull splitting, the boom and the unstepped mast spilling into the yard.

 

LATER, having returned to the house, his hands and face washed, he lies down and drifts, the gray light enfolding him, all the noise and debris collapsing into silence. He wonders if this is what it means to be entirely at peace.

He tries to speak with the ferryman but feels a weight on his tongue like silver. He chokes on the coin. He spits it out.

In the next instant, the ferry shudders, it pitches and rolls. He loses his grip and slips over into darkness. He falls with the efficiency of stone, dropping until he can no longer stomach the sensation, until his arms and legs begin thrashing and kicking, his fingers reaching for a line, a narrow ledge, first slowing and then stopping his descent.

After a time, he finds himself floating, suspended between two worlds. An ache for breath, for speech, swells in his throat. Weight and resistance fall away. He opens his eyes to the gray light. “You can scuttle the boat,” someone says.

Finally, before dawn, drifting on a white whale, he hears something familiar – a thud. It sounds like a wet sandbag hitting the galley floor. He turns and moves toward the companionway. Nothing there. He starts making a list;
shattered hull
is the first item, then
broken rudder
and
bent shaft
. He wants to forget, to sleep without worry or fear. The noise comes again like a fist punching a wall or a door closing. What can he do but choose? The only way is to choose – take sides with truth or memory, sanity or madness, the real or the imagined. But how will he separate one from the other?

A footfall thumps in his ear. He stares at the companionway. No shadows or shifting outlines. Nothing now but a clear passage.

A clamor in the air wakes him.

He sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He yawns. He scratches the stubble on his face. It occurs to him now that that pounding isn't just in his head. He puts on his jeans and a clean shirt and walks barefoot into the living room. He hears Maureen's voice between the knocking. “Jason,” she says. “Jason, are you there?”

He opens the door.

“Your bell's not working,” she says. “Where were you?”

“In bed.”

“You never sleep this late,” she says. “I would've called – but I was on my way out and I drove past Humbug – ”

“Come in,” he says. “It's too bright on the porch.”

Maureen steps into the house. “Jason, I hate to be the one to tell you – ”

“Don't call me Jason,” he says, cutting her off.

She furrows her brow. “It's your name.”

“It's not my first choice.”

“For God's sake, Jas – ”

He raises his hand.

“All right,” she says. “I'll try.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Now. What's the problem?”

“Your boat fell over.”

“It did?”

“It bit the dust. It's in the yard this minute lying on its side.”

He rubs the knuckles of his left hand. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Is that all you're going to say?”

He starts for the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?” he says.

Impatience seeps into her face. “No. I don't want coffee. You have to get down there.”

“For what?”

“I don't know. Talk to somebody. Find out what happened. You'll have to call the insurance company.”

“It's not insured.”

“What do you mean?” she says. “Of course it's insured.”

“No. I let the coverage lapse. It was that or child support.”

Then Maureen sees the boxes, bags, and suitcases sitting next to his amplifier and guitar. She leans against the sofa to steady herself. “Where are you going?”

“I'm leaving.”

Maureen doesn't say anything after that. Her eyes seem suddenly surprised by the bare walls.

He goes into the kitchen. She follows.

“You sure you don't want some coffee?” He spoons fresh grounds into a French press. “What are you staring at?” he says.

“I'm not sure.” She runs her hand across the counter, her fingers trembling. “The place is so clean,” she says.

“Yeah. I'm breaking the lease. I figure it'll be easier if I don't leave a mess.”

She lets out a sigh of amazement. “I'll be damned,” she says. “You did it. It was you – ”

He cuts in, “I'll say good-bye to Heather and then go.”

In the flat morning light, Maureen looks tired. She fusses with her hair. “What about your furniture?”

“I'm giving it to the landlord. She can keep it or sell it. It won't make up for the rent, but it's all I can do.”

“Where are you going?”

He hesitates. “I'm thinking Canada.”

She seems startled by something outside the window. “I was ready for one of you to go,” she says softly, “but not both.” She tries to smile.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

She nods. “I should leave,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I'm late.”

He stops her at the front door and kisses her on the cheek.

“Will you call?” she says.

“I'll have to,” he says.

“That's not what I mean.”

“Yes,” he says. “I'll call.”

 

AT NOON, he rushes through the house and looks for the last time into closets, cupboards, and drawers. He writes a note to the landlord and apologizes for his abrupt departure and asks her to accept his furniture, sorry though it may be, as compensation. He lays the note on the kitchen counter and piles the rosary on one corner and the keys to the landlord's kingdom on the other.

After securing and covering his goods, the guitar and amplifier stowed in the cab, he leans on the tailgate of the pickup and catches his breath, satisfied that he's taking only those things that he wants. A Monday feeling hangs in the air. The neighbors are all at work, he thinks, forced out of bed by alarm clocks and obligations.

He opens the door, settles into the driver's seat, and starts the engine. He rolls into the street and speeds away with his eyes fixed on the unfolding road.

Minutes later, he pulls up in front of Maureen's house and sees Heather sitting on the porch steps. He gets out slowly and walks up the driveway, the midday sun beating down on his head like a spotlight.

“Can we go inside,” he says. “I can't handle the glare.”

Heather leads him into the small room just off the front hall where Maureen still keeps the piano.

“Mom called and told me about the boat. Did you really knock it over?”

“Your mother must've been the first to see it.”

“Maybe. But when I showed up – ”

“You went to Humbug?”

“I had to,” she says. “When I got there, lots of men were standing around the wreck as if it were a crime scene. One of 'em recognized me and asked if I knew where you were. Someone was trying to call.”

He sits on the piano bench, his back to the keys. “I cancelled the phone.”

Heather laughs. “Mom says you did it.”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing. Just that you'd be here to say good-bye. But I knew that.”

“I'm surprised she didn't say more.”

“Like what?”

“Like your old man's gone off the deep end.”

“No. She didn't say that.”

“So you're leaving a week from today?” he says. “On Monday?”

“Why don't you stay?” she says. “You can help me pack.”

“You've packed already.”

“That's true. But if you stay, we could do some other stuff.”

“I'd like to, but I can't. I'm trying to miss the landlord.”

“Oh,” says Heather. “A delicate situation?”

“It's always delicate when you break a lease.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“But you're all set for the airport, right?”

She nods.

“I'll visit as soon as I can,” he says. “As soon as I get settled.”

“Sounds good. But you have to promise, Dad, no headlocks.”

“I promise.”

“I'll miss you,” she says.

“You will?”

She sits next to him on the bench. “I always loved the music. I missed it for a long time, but then, when I heard you again with Brian, it seemed like it was never gone.” She touches his crooked fingers. “How are your hands?”

“Never better,” he says.

“You need to take care of them.”

“I will. I'll even wear gloves in the winter.”

Heather smiles. “I liked watching the old movies, too. Especially the ones in black and white.”

“You said they were slow.”

“I did not.”

“And you fell asleep.”

“Not all the time.” She rubs his hand. “And I loved your stories about the Black & White Club.”

He groans.

“No. I really did. The place was completely perfect and strange. Do you still go there?”

“Not so much,” he says.

“Because I do. I daydream about it sometimes.”

“Sorry,” he says.

“Stop it. You always made up the best stories.”

He wants to memorize her face. Carry it with him the way it is now for as long as he can. “What's your number at school?”

“I don't know. But I'll find out as soon as I get there.”

“Okay. I'll call your mom.” He touches her hair. “If you need anything – ”

“I know.” She follows him to the door. “I feel scared,” she says.

“You're just nervous. You're not afraid of anything,” he says. “I'm proud of you. I've always been proud of you.”

She hugs him.

“I'd planned to write some stuff down,” he says. “Or at least tell you what to watch out for.”

“I'll be okay,” she says.

“I know. But I wanted to make it special – give you some words to carry along.”

“I'll be all right,” she says. “I've got plenty. More than I'll ever remember.”